Drabbles
by Redone
Summary: Some drabbles from the life of Darth Vader and his agent. Added a drabble about Piett.
1. Marie and Suzette

A/N: For those who do not know who Jix is: Wrenga Jixton or "Jix" is Vader's secret agent/assassin from the comic book "Shadow Stalker". It was Djuva who made him oh so popular and likeable in her fanfics.

Marie and Suzette  
(a Jix/Vader drabble)

Jix didn't even bother looking into the study or training room; he went straight down to the hangar level and from there, to the closed-off section where Vader kept his "projects". Indeed, as he stepped in, a pair of boot soles greeted him from under the belly of a sleek silver beauty. Further down stood another fighter, an unusually smooth-lined and graceful yellow Nubian.

"Hello, Marie, hello, Suzette, hello, Uncle Dee," Jix twittered in his best sing-song.

Ah. That brought the expected result. "What?" Vader rolled out from under "Marie".

"Oh, I just thought I'd greet your brides," Jix said nonchalantly, gesturing towards the ships. "Think I'd have a chance with them?"

"What are you babbling on about?"

"Well, those two beauties, of course. The ones you spend all your time with, so I assumed you must love them a lot. Your sweethearts, or have you got married already? Any little 'uns forthcoming?"

It took a moment before Vader was coherent enough to be able to string three words together. "I'll kill you, Jixton. I swear I'll kill you."

P.S. Oh, and a few weeks later when returning to Vader's castle to give a report, Jix found the Sith Lord once again in the hangar. He hid a grin when he saw "Silver Marie" printed in neat Aurabesh characters over the shuttle's side. That night the agent indulged in some Corellian best, toasting his new "godchild".


	2. Heritage

Heritage

Vader (typing furiously: _clickety-click, clickety-clickety-click._)

Jix (watching Death Star security tapes): "So... this... you say is the reported son of yours. Would never have guessed."

Vader (_clickety-clickety_): "Shut up, Jix. I'm trying to write a report."

Jix: "No, really. Anything like you? Let me guess. Great shot, apparently, if the Death Star was an indication. Got that from you, I s'pose."

Vader: _(clickety-cli-) _"Damn." _(backspace-click-click.)_ "His mother."

Jix: "And the appearance, I guess, is from mother too. Small, slight. No black capes, no masks..."

Vader: "You may thank your good fortune for that."

Jix: "Made Commander, I hear. Now that is certainly your natural flair for commanding. Can't have just learned that, with that sort of background."

Vader: _(clickety-)_ "Wrong again." _(click, click, click.) _"His mother again."

Jix: "Really? Must have been one helluva mum then. Hmm. So what's yours? The sort of rebellious streak, coupled with political idealism? You know, the Emp's comment about how you can still be an idealist and all that stuff."

Vader (stops the furious clicking, looks up from the keyboard): "You know, Jix, I rue the day I sent you on an errand from this Death Star. Otherwise you would be comfortably out of my hair. If I still had hair, that is."

Jix (looks hurt): "Uncle Dee! You don't mean that!"

Vader: "I'm beginning to doubt. But, no, once again this is something typically Mrs Skywalker."

Jix: "Oh. I was sorta expecting someone like you. You know, sort of like my adopted cousin. Big, strong, sulky, great fun. And what do I get? A little blue-eyed farmboy. Of Tatooine of all the possible armpits of the Galaxy. Tatooine, can you imagine that? I bet it was also Mrs Skywalker who gave him that particular provenance."

Vader (sighs): "No, Jixton. That was me."

F-


	3. Familial Menace

FAMILIAL MENACE

True, it is not every day that the Sith Lord visits that pitiful den his trusted agent calls "my suite of rooms, Your Worship", but he has been known to find his way there occasionally. So it comes as a slight surprise that he does not hear a drawled "C'meen" or the noises of a B movie.

Instead, the door is opened cautiously and Jix peers out. "Oh, it's you, Uncle Dee. Look, it's not the best of times..." he mutters in a subdued way.

Vader frowns. What is going on? Is Jix hiding someone? Brought home a new acquaintance perhaps? "Look, Jix, when I agreed to give you an apartment here, we agreed that no birds."

The Corellian naturally hastens to deny, but refuses to give adequate explanation. Very well. Jix has brought it onto himself. He never was a match for the Sith Lord anyway. The door smashes and Vader walks in.

What he sees completely blows his mind.

This is not Jix's apartment.

Vader's helmeted head swivels as he takes in everything around him. No. It can't be. It just can't.

Nota singlecheap magazine. Not a single misplaced screwdriver, old pipe or dirty sock in sight. No speck of Jixness anywhere! Instead the usual empty and half full beer cans, the table is covered in jars upon jars of... strawberry jam, pickled mushrooms, apples in syrup, a huge basket of pasties, a plastic-wrapped packet that looks suspiciously like steaks, and god knows what other things, and is that a bloody embroidered tablecloth under it all?

And his agent standing amidst it all, shoulders hunched and a lost look upon his face.

"What happened?" Vader cannot help but feel a slight tinge of worry for the Corellian.

Jix merely shrugs. "The twice-yearly plague, I s'ppose. You see--"

"And who might you be?" a voice interrupts him.

Vader turns slowly. There, at the kitchen door she stands, arms akimbo, glaring alternately at Vader and the destroyed door. Inexplicably, the Sith Lord feels an urge to get a broom and clean up after himself. He holds himself back with supreme effort.

"My mum, Mrs Jixton," Jix mutters dejectedly. "Mum, this is, er, uh, my employer, Lord Darth Vader."

"Ah, you're the one the holonews are constantly blaring about. The- er, some sort of dark lord of what is not mentioned in polite society."

Jix groans. "Mum! Sith, it is Sith!"

"Yes, that. Well, if you're so high and mighty as they say, how come you don't take better care of my boy? All skin and bones he is, all skin and bones! And not enough food in his fridge to feed a kitchen mouse! How can he live like this? You should be looking after him. My Wrenga needs someone to take proper care of him! He does not deserve to starve or live on this pile of junk. He's a good boy, he is, even if a little bit slow on the uptake-"

Jix sputters and roars, "Mum! That is quite enough!"

Mrs Jixton, however, swats him over the head. "You be quiet, boy, when I am talking to your employer!"

Vader is totally overwhelmed. He sees only two ways out, and as he would prefer to retain Jix's services, he would rather not resort to his red-bladed Option Number Two. "Mrs Jixton, I'm sure it's been a pleasure but-"

"Nonsense, nonsense. These young'uns these days, always running somewhere, always busy, never find time to look after themselves properly. Now sit down, both of you, and be good boys, while I'm trying to find you something for dinner..."

FIN-


	4. What's in a name

**A/n: This is not Vader/Jix, at all, but I found it among the material on my old comp and thought that its spirit would fit in here quite well. It is a very old drabble from the times when we did not know that Piett's first name was Firmus.**

**What's in a name**

You may be young, tall, muscular and extremely good-looking, and girls may be swarming after you; you may be above average in your mental abilities and a star graduate of the Imperial Academy; you may be wearing your new freshly-pressed uniform with shiny buttons and polished knee-high boots that still bear the sensual aroma of leather; but it all comes to naught when the first of them asks your name and you don't have anything decent to answer.

That was exactly what happened to Piett. It was his graduation night, he already had his commission to one of the Imperial Star Destroyers in his chest pocket, a drink or two under the belt, and a girl hanging around his neck. And then it struck.

"Hun, you never said what your first name was."

"Er." Piett blushed. "Khm. Wdrdblbummmk."

"I didn't quite catch that." The girl bit her lower lip in an innocent way and peered relentlessly up to him. Piett blushed.

"Look, I'd really prefer if you called me Piett. Just Piett."

"Aww. Come on, it can't be that bad." She kissed his cheek. "I promise I won't laugh."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Piett sighed. "Okay. It's Nabuchodonosor Harlequin Billybob."

"Wh---?" The girl pressed her palms over her mouth. A little squeak still came through. Piett did not think it very funny; in fact, he was glaring at her sullenly.

"It's not my fault!" he insisted.

"Eeep!"

"You promised!"

But the girl was already rushing out, her face beet-red from holding back a laugh that could have shaken rocks.

Piett sighed again and ordered another whiskey. A little later, as he perceived sidelong glances directed at him, accompanied by giggles, he decided to write the evening off as a lost cause.

fin


End file.
